Conflict Of Honors Read Free Page B

sidewall, and that was good. The door was locked from the outside, and that was bad. Her head ached, and that, she decided, was worst of all. Neither the soreness of her face nor the pain in her shoulder came near it, though the throb of her ribs ran a close second.

    Moving with extreme care, Priscilla went to the window and stood on tiptoe, craning. No way out there: the pane was solid blast-glass, and even had she the means to break it, the opening itself was too small even for her lanky frame.

    Outside, the well-kept shuttle was still in its ratty cradle.

    Daxflan's shuttle was gone.

    Left me, she thought through the fog of dizziness and pain. And then, with a gasp that sent knifing fire down her side, the reality hit her. Left me! Here, with the door locked and no way out and how could they have left me? Surely the Trader would have missed me . . . or if not me—but how could they not have missed me! Tailly, Nik Laz, Bern . . . how could they have left. . .

    She took a deep, deliberate breath, ignoring the pain.

    "I will not," she informed the room austerely, "sanction hysterics."

    Her voice came back to her from the empty walls, deep and oddly comforting. Priscilla closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing until the panic stilled.

    I have to get out, she told herself, forming the thought carefully.

    She surveyed her prison. Empty. Dustless. Dim. What light there was came from the window. She would have to do whatever she did before day failed.

    Leaning against the wall, she went through her pockets: stylus, pad of paper, ID, strapping tape, comb, two Terran wholebits, magnetic ruler, penknife, calculator—nothing heavy enough to break a triple-thick window or strong enough to jimmy the door.

    She took another look outside. The yard was as empty as the room she stood in. She settled her shoulders against the wall and considered her resources.

    Stylus. Not too likely. It went back into her pocket. Likewise the paper; also comb, ID, and money.

    Tape? She kept it out for the time being. Penknife? Why not? Ruler? No— Yes. Yes, wait a minute—magnets . . . lock . . . jimmy the lock!

    She knelt at the door to get the cardslot at eye level, then peered cautiously within. It just might be possible . . . .

    Sitting back on her heels, she unrolled the ruler and tried unsuccessfully to pry the thin rectangular magnets off with her fingers. The penknife did the trick—fifteen minutes later she had four flat magnets, each with its own long tail of tape, lined up on the door next to the cardslot.

    With the tip of the knife she inserted them, one at a time, thanking the Goddess that there were only four contacts within the mechanism and that no one had expected the place to be used as a jail.

    The last magnet was affixed. She withdrew the knife, holding her breath . . . but nothing happened.

    Wrong combination, she told herself, and patiently inserted the knife point again, reversing the polarity of the magnet on the extreme left.

    She had worked through twelve combinations, and multicolored spots were shimmering before her eyes, when there was a soft click. Hardly daring to breathe, she looked up.

    The light over the door frame was lit.

    She scrambled to her feet, folding the knife automatically and dropping it into her pocket. Leaning forward, she put her hands against the panel and prepared to push—but suddenly the door slid open.

    Priscilla twisted, gasping, and regained her balance before the man on the other side extended a hand to grab her.

    "Hold there, now." The grip on her arm changed. "Who by hell are you?"

    "Priscilla Mendoza—cargo master on Daxflan."

    "That's so, is it?" He eyed her. "Bit beyond yer territory, would say?"

    "Without a doubt." She gritted her teeth against the pain and fought to keep the edge out of her voice. "There's been a—misunderstanding. I'm sure Trader Olanek will vouch for me. He was with the port master . . . ."

    "That be so,"